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A security guard leans against the open door of the corner shop. Resting my bike against the lamp post, the light flickers above; the bulb’s about to blow. Still visible in the shop window are the photos of me and Dad beneath the words: THE FOLLOWING PEOPLE ARE BANNED FROM ENTERING.
“You grab, I’ll watch,” I whisper to Dad.
He stops and lights a ciggie. His hands shake – the first sign his tank is on E. It’s more than Dad’s freaking turn.
“For shit’s sake, boy, already told ya. You grab, I’ll watch.”
He’s never been one to take turns. It’s the same cussing from Dad, every time.
“I’m sick of hauling shit for you.” My voice rises, along with my insides. I’m like a chameleon changing colour – red, right now, because this dude is pissing me off. I’d give him grief about what a lazy arse he is, but the security guard looks right at us.
“You’re better at it,” Dad whispers.
“Because I’m always doing it.”
Dad pulls a roll-your-own packet from his back pocket and evenly distributes weed leaves amongst the tobacco. He’s ignoring me on purpose; doesn’t show any emotion. It’s his tactic. He knows I hate not being onto it and having a plan before we haul.
Dad looks at me, smiles at the guard, and back to me. Loitering amps up your nerves, makes you panic and more likely to mess up. Even with a tight plan – Dad always changes it at critical moments, and we get caught.
“I don’t even drink. You want booze, you freaking do it.”
Dad leans close; his breath reeks of weed. “Come on, boy. Like –” And I know what he’s gonna say. His cheesy-arse grin; that alone pisses me off. And then he says it: “Like the good people at Nike say, just do it.”
He rolls off the words like he’s relaxed, unfazed. I grit my teeth. What he means is, he wants someone else to do it.
“Stellar fatherly advice.” And I push him towards the shop. I’m raging-hot-lava red. “I told you, I’m not hauling shit for you anymore, apart from food.”
Smoke billows from Dad’s mouth as he leans in close again. The guard watches. We look tragic and obvious, because we are.
“We need food ... aaand dog food.”
He’s right, and a cunning son of a bitch. That line gets me every time. He’s useless as shit at hauling, never gets what we need, only booze. And it’s like he read my stomach. My tummy growls. He’s a skilled manipulator, and it’s seriously the only thing he excels at – oh, and being the world’s worst dad. I picture Bear, back at the flat, nudging her empty bowl into the kitchen wall, looking around for me – someone to give a shit she’s hungry and alone.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
Dad holds his cigarette in his lips; his hands shake as he leans into the flame. The guard glares at us as our faces light up. Dad leans against the lamp post, the bulb above broken and buzzing. “And while ya there, get me a bottle, whatever’s easy.”
The Mitsi’s parked right there, door open.
I’d yell in his face, stamp my freaking foot like a five-year-old, if my stomach wasn’t irate with hunger. Bear’s must be too.
Isn’t he the one that’s supposed to make the sensible decisions?
As we cross the road, police sirens wail – background music in these parts.
I edge towards the shop. Be cool. Don’t act dodgy and things will be sweet. My plans have turned to shit already, and my nerves are flustered. My stomach groans – it’s enough to straighten my focus, like a spoon banging an empty tin.
The shop door buzzer announces my arrival.
“Evening,” the guard says.
“Hey.” I don’t make eye contact; my focus flicks around the shop for the location of dog food. They don’t keep booze at the front anymore, too convenient for those grab and run situations.
The guy at the counter watches my every move as I beeline for the back of the shop, passing fake cheese and pita bread, a bag of cat biscuits in a box labelled Expired Stock; I make a mental note of their location. The dog food is too far away, the bag too big to carry. Cat food will do – Bear loves it anyway. This is what bad planning does; your nerves are wrecked, you overthink. You gotta get in and out – second-guess one decision, and hesitation will get you caught. I’ve got three seconds to grab like I have all the intention to pay, and one second to run.
Along the back wall I spot the biggest bottle of whiskey, the only one in a plastic bottle, but before I grab, I check behind for the safest exit route. As long as the security guard is outside and Dad has the car started, my door open, ready and waiting, we are all good. I grab one large bottle of spirits, turn around, sprint out of the shop, and randomly grab packets on my way past from the expired box.
“Come back! Get him!”
I burst out of the shop. My insides twist, my heart hammers, like it’s trying to escape through my ears.
The Mitsi’s not there. Dad’s not there. He’s bailed – of course he has. He’s a selfish a-hole. At least he left my bike parked where the Mitsi was.
The security guard’s huffing right behind. I bolt across the main road to where Dad should be waiting by my bike. The least Dad could do is not suck at being watcher, just once! My throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe properly, the guard is a few metres away.
The stuff won’t all fit in my bag. The spray cans from last night’s haul are carefully stacked inside, in every colour I’ve ever wanted. I push everything in and try to force the zip as the guard crosses the road. I throw the booze; it rolls along the pavement. The guard reaches out for my bag, but the zip is now shut; I swing my leg over my bike and pedal like crazy, fuming too much to care who’s yelling behind me. I don’t even drink, yet I’m the idiot hauling it, risking my arse. Knowing Dad, he got a better offer.
Cutting the lights through Main Street, a truck beeps its horn and its brakes screech as it comes to an abrupt stop.
Mum would be gutted – me and Dad are vandals and thieves with little to no prospects. Mostly, she’d be disappointed I’ve not kept my promise to look after Dad, make him better. I’ve failed; he’s messed up as hell. The trajectory of my life is towards a prison cell with the world’s most annoying cellmate.
I jump the bike up the footpath and enter the alleyway that cuts through the city. I pedal towards the light at the end, hop off my bike. The Red Gallery Café behind me overlooks the end of the alley and the main road that separates it from Central Garden Square.
Using the torch on my phone, I hold the light up against the wall, which is painted a patchwork of different shades of white, covering the street art that was there yesterday.
Message from Dad: Bring the booze to the flat, get the baggy from Marv’s on ya way – tell em I’ll pay him later. Scored us a keg.
I don’t reply. There’s no sorry, no lame reason why he ditched me when I needed him.
I open my bag and admire the colours of the spray-can lids. The entire rainbow and a few extras: metallics, gold, silver and bronze. Rare finds worth the cuts on my hands from the glass window I had to climb through to steal them.
If my mood were a colour, it would be the black at the bottom of a deep, cavernous hole. I pull out the black spray, admire the rainbow, like a secret, forbidden treasure – something to be savoured for the perfect art piece worthy of the best spray a person can steal. I’ve painted in black for so long I can’t remember being in the mood to colour. Knowing they’re there is a secret power, waiting for a mood that screams for technicolour.
It’s Sunday night, about to be Monday morning. I’ve got school in a few hours, and time to kill. The alley is both safety – it’s black, quiet, and a refuge for vandals and thieves – and terrifying, for the same reasons.
I set my phone on the ground to light the wall. The fumes of freshly laid white paint remind me of helping Mum paint the walls in her art studio. The same white that covered the ugly brown walls of the shitty garage she called her happy space.
Using the entire height of the wall, I spray the outline of Mayor Tim Hope’s face. Slender nose, sunken eyes, fake smile – the perfect villain features. There’s nothing hopeful about him, considering his quote in the local news: Homelessness is a choice. It was one of his campaign slogans for cleaning up the city.
I go over all his features, blackening and darkening. The smell of fresh spray fills the air. The pssst of the can would usually evoke calmness, but not today. Underneath, I spray AN INHUMAN MASTER.
A police siren and a rush of voices, echoing in the night. Torchlight flickers at the end of the alley; I zip my bag, pick up my bike and lift it over the wall and into the back of the Red Gallery Café. The security light flicks on, and as I wait, frozen on the other side, footsteps – two, maybe three people – run past. For someone who spends an incredible amount of time in the night, on the streets alone, it never gets less scary. You can’t trust anyone.
Looking up at the back of the gallery, I realise I’ve trapped myself. One more move and the security lights on the other side of the building will flick on; that’s enough to set off warning beeps in some security systems. The windows in the flat above are still black. In that apartment is Libby Green’s bedroom. She’s Beachlands High’s head girl, queen of the anti-bullying and environment council; she’s that kind of annoying, moralistic overachiever. She’s also slightly distracting – I’m not blind. If she were a colour, she’d be turquoise. Perfect on its own, but garish when combined with the wrong yellow. Colour has a way of hiding what’s underneath.
My mind drifts. And without thinking, I lean against the wall, and the other security light flicks on, illuminating the back wall of the café ... and me. And the sign GRAFFITI IS A CRIME.
I can’t ignore it. It’s legit screaming at me for help. I can for real hear its cries.
A white sign with thick black letters, right where people would park their cars, for all to see. My hands sweat; I should leave it. The Red Gallery Café is the second-best place in town to see art that doesn’t suck. But I swear the sign is crying at me, save me, practically grabbing me, pushing me towards it, to help it unleash the truth. You wouldn’t see this kinda sign at SOFA, the School of Fine Arts. This is the best place in town to see art that will blow your mind.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Message from Dad: Where are you? Got the stuff?
Just seeing his name in my inbox ignites a twisted, burning pain in my neck. I don’t answer, my passive-aggressive way of saying, stuff you. It’s pointless, anyway; he’s immune to the meaning of subtle hints that I’m pissed at him, or he’s nailed the art of not giving a crap about anyone other than himself. I drop my bag in front of the GRAFFITI IS A CRIME sign.
I wait a few seconds; the windows in Libby’s apartment remain dark. Then, in black, I spray an X through A CRIME and write ART.
GRAFFITI IS ART
And now I can breathe, and order is restored. For this sign, at least. My heart wants to write Art is the only thing that makes sense.
I know Mum would agree. She painted a canvas with that line, thick black letters; we spent hours detailing the flowers that filled the hollow of each letter. Now she’s gone; it’s just the hollow that remains.
I spray Xavier in the corner – not my real name, my street name. Lucky for me, no one knows that Dylan Marshall, who is practically invisible at Beachlands High, is the wanted vandal spraying controversial portraits around town.
Under GRAFFITI IS ART, I outline in black a dude: floppy hair that needs a cut, hoody, too-baggy skinny jeans, Chucks, and his arm raised spraying the sign GRAFFITI IS ART.
I drop the empty can in the bin by the back door. There’s a noticeboard with two posters: one says Art Lessons This Way, with an arrow pointing into the café; the other one is advertising the School of Fine Arts scholarship competition. As I take a closer look, a light flicks on in the apartment above. I pull my hoody down, slip my bag on, lift my bike back over the fence into the alley, and ride into Central Garden Square. As I look through the trees into Libby’s room, a silhouette strides past her window, and the lower floor of the café is now lit.
A police car drives past slowly. My cue to leave.
I ride through town to the train station and follow the tracks parallel with the coastline out of town. I speed past the paths down to the beach, and the peeps that rough-sleep there; they’re outcasts, even by the city’s homeless standards, too dangerous, too notorious, banned from the city. They sleep in makeshift tents in the dunes. They’re opportunists – I get it, it’s survival, it’s how it is out these parts. This time of night, they’ll take everything you’ve got and leave you bloodied and broken if you don’t do what they say. Or, in Dad’s case, if you rip them off, they’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.
I know this for sure because I’m the one who breaks into a pharmacy to get painkillers. On the streets, Dad would be dead if I wasn’t around to look after his impossible, useless self. I promised Mum. I might be a vandal, thief, and low-life degenerate with little to no life prospects and a future of who the fuck knows, but I am one to keep a promise.
The first-of-the-morning commuter trains barrel past, transporting people with jobs into town. As the track heads inland, the light of the city fades, and I leave the beach behind. Not much later, I reach the ten-foot concrete wall, the council’s answer to improving the view for the train occupants, tagged apartments on the other side.
I jump my bike up a stack of rusted train tracks, onto a ramp made by yours truly from pulled-apart pallets, and drop my bike over the fence into my backyard. Technically not mine – shared with the others that live in the apartment block. At the back door, Bear whimpers and scratches from the other side of the glass. I tug on the door, but it doesn’t budge. I head around the front, a line of faded brown doors, and stuck to the front of ours is a notice, black letters: EVICTED. I pull the message from the door and scrunch it tight. The paint on my fingers cracks. I swallow hard, breathe deep. It’s not the first notice. It won’t be the last. My palms sweat; I pull my arm back and smash my fist through the plasterboard covering the last hole in the door. Pain radiates through my already cut fingers and up my arm into my shoulder. The pain distributes the pent-up fury over the dickhead that can’t be bothered to pay rent.
We alternate between sleeping on the street and this – not on the street, but close. And even though none of this is a surprise, every time it happens, Dad gets more feral and harder to tame, and hiding it from people at school is an ever-present worry. School counsellors have a way of interfering, thinking they’re helping but making things worse. Without me, Dad would last a week on his own, tops, before he was dead in a ditch. And that’s why my night-time street-art gig has to remain a secret. If I’m caught, the peeps at social services will interfere, and Dad will be left alone. Now I’m eighteen, anything on a police record will stop any chance of doing something with my life, if being practically homeless wasn’t enough. No one can know I’m Xavier, and no one at school can find out I’m homeless.
I open the front door, and the reek of stale booze slams into me. I’m ready to yell it out with Dad, but he lays motionless on the couch, and the rage is immediately replaced with worry he’s dead. His head is slumped back, his feet rest on a keg. Dodging empty booze bottles on the floor, I lean my ear into his chest. He snorts a breath in; he’s alive. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, and then I call an ambulance, but most of the time he’s fine, alive, existing. That’s my life; we live to exist, to survive. To hope for anything more would be extravagant and wishful thinking.
I pull the eviction notice from my pocket and chuck it hard at his shoulder. The ball hits his chest and falls onto his lap, does nothing to wake him. Out cold like a stone.
I rest my bag on the kitchen bench and take out the packet of fake cheese, the pita bread and salami, and drop them on Dad’s lap. He lurches forward, opening his eyes, looks down at dinner or breakfast; it can be whatever he wants it to be.
“Eat.”
Dad picks up each item and inspects it. “Where’s my beer?”
“Back where you didn’t meet me. Couldn’t carry it home, bags full.”
He groans and sinks further into the couch, like he’s the kid.
Isn’t he supposed to be telling me my moral compass is pointed in the wrong direction? And the rage returns – hidden, of course – I push it down, think of the rainbow in my backpack. Having it out with him is pointless. I’ve never known Dad to be anything other than a useless alcoholic. No amount of anything has helped or will help him change. Doesn’t stop me from trying occasionally, only to end up wishing I’d never wasted my time. Like the drug and alcohol counselling, which he never shows up to. Even the threats of me being taken away by social services haven’t changed a stupid thing about him. His comment, “You’re eighteen soon, boy,” was his way of dealing with it.
I suppose it’s better than last time I raged at him about drinking and his general sucking-at-parenting-ness; his solution was to disappear on a ten-day bender. I had no idea where he was.
He rips the packets open, tears off a hunk of bread, and stuffs it with salami and cheese. He continues, consuming every last bite of food. My stomach grumbles. But I don’t complain. It’s good he’s eating, a change from his usual liquid diet.
Bear weaves between my legs. I tear the top off a tin of Fancy Feast cat food and tip it into her bowl. She jumps and licks my face, her moustache tickling my cheek. “We’ll hang later, okay, girl?” I ruffle the fur on her head as she gets stuck into her food.
In my room, I drag my mattress from under Dad’s bed and unroll my sleeping bag. I lay there listening to the commuter trains, one passing every few minutes, unsure why I’m trying to sleep; school starts in two hours. I can’t handle another all-nighter, can’t handle falling into a deep sleep either, the hallucinations about the old house, with Mum, the old life. Which was still shit, but hands down infinitely better because Mum wasn’t dead.
I’m not sure if this will be the last night we sleep here, or where me and Dad will end up ... we never know. That’s how it is with the surviving-to-exist thing – expect the unexpected. The only constant is the hustle to stay alive, and sucking it up no matter how hard you wish it was different. Unless you’ve got a pot of magic beans, there’s no way out. If there was, me and Dad wouldn’t be here. We’d have a permanent roof, eat at the table, with food from all food groups, and I would have a plan for the future. I’d know how to become somebody. For now, it’s survival, each day having to figure out where we’re going to sleep safe for that night.
Bear curls up on the pillow next to my face, her breath cat-food flavour. Stealing to feed her, to feed us – what choice do I have? There is no escape and only one option – survive or die.